Yellow Bear

          My bedroom was painted purple now and my sister and I slept in our separate twin beds.  The sun was starting to set and I could feel the tendrils of anticipation begin to tickle my tummy. I was prepared.  One by one, I had found them and put them into the basket next to my bed.  Mommy had told me that the Pacifier Fairy was going to visit me. She said that the fairy would give my pacifiers to little girls who needed them more than me. I knew it was time.  After all, I was already three.  I was a big girl. Besides, Mommy also told me the fairy would give me something in return, and I liked that.   The next morning, I looked in my basket.  All my friends were gone, but the fairy had left another companion in their stead.  I believe in Yellow Bear.  He was fat and yellow.  He had brown eyes and fit perfectly in my arms. His fur wasn’t very soft and he smelled like cotton, but nobody is perfect.  Already we knew that we were going to be good friends.  Each night I would hug him tightly and every morning I would carefully tuck him into my bed.  

            My room was painted pink now and I had my own room.  It was time to pack them all up.  I was in junior in high school now and I needed to say goodbye to my stuffed animals and dolls. They were taking up too much space and I needed to make room for my desk.  My mom had given me one of her unused bins to use in my farewell ceremony.  One by one, I packed my friends into a box giving them each a personal ‘goodbye’.  They all left, everyone but Yellow Bear.  Besides, he wanted to be in my school photo this year, and I can never say no to him. He was still fat, but a little misshapen from years of hugs.  If you looked at his paw, you would see crude stitches where I had patched a tear.  And on the back of his head was a bald spot where I had impulsively decided to give him a haircut.  It was a mistake, but he forgave me.  No.  Yellow Bear was staying. 

            My room is painted navy blue now and I have a queen size bed.   I have to take down all my posters and memories off the wall to make room for my new décor.  I told my mom that I wanted a mature, ‘adult’ styled room now that I was in college.  No more fair wristbands and school dance tickets taped to the wall.  Goodbye Irish flag, dollar bill I won in a bet and academic medals.  One by one, relics of my adolescence are placed carefully in the box labeled “Ruby’s Childhood”.  I close the first box and put it in my closet.  When I look up, I see him.  Sitting on the shelf, with his graying fur and dulled eyes, he looks at me. I smile. Everything was going. Well, everything except Yellow Bear.  

Reflections

In light of my new-found love of family history, 

This is a letter I wrote to my great aunt of whom I never knew. 

October 2012 

Dear Great Aunt Nellie,

               Sitting on the top of the piano in the parlor room we rarely use, is a picture of my mother’s father’s mother’s family.  It’s very old.  At least, it looks old to my eyes.   There are a handful of dapper gentlemen, barely smiling, in suit coats.  One, either the rebel or just the suave-type, is wearing a turtle neck. Standing in the back, like all older children must, is a woman, maybe in her mid-20s.  She is no beauty, but rather handsome.  She is tall, taller than some of her brothers to which I assume was embarrassing to them, thin and wearing a plain dress which neither looked terribly expensive or terribly comfortable.   She is my grandfather’s mother, my great-grandmother.  Sitting on either side of this large family is a grown man.  The father I’m assuming.  He looks like the proud sort.  Perfectly coiffed hair, clean suit but wear and difficulty have left their mark.  Nonetheless, I’m sure he was just as successful as he wanted to be.  On the other side is an older woman.   She is big-bosomed and big-boned.  I’m sure she was a very beautiful woman in her younger years.   Now her hair is white and piled on her head in one Victorian bun and her collar is pinned with a broach.   A no-nonsense woman, I’m sure.  As my eyes scale to the bottom, I see two young girls, no more than 16.  They could be twins because of their closeness in age.   Untraditionally, my eyes scan from left to right, resting on a beautiful young lady.  Her features are big, eyes wide with amusement despite the obvious boredom of the situation and a mouth very full and assuredly deep blushing rouge (the picture is sepia, but you can tell).  There was something so familiar about this girl.  I had seen her image before somewhere. Suddenly, I knew why I had such an eerie feeling about her.  Turning towards the mirror on the opposite wall, I saw you Aunt Nellie.   My face is an almost exact replica of yours.   Funny how these things happen, genetics and all. 

My whole life, I felt out of place, at least visually, in my family.   My mother has a lot of shared features with her father, who shared a lot of features with your sister, Mabel.  Likewise, my brother resembles her.  My father also has very strong family resemblances, which were passed down to my sisters.  I, on the other hand, resemble neither.   Sure, I have the coloring, dark eyes and hair from the Cox line.  And the stature (short) from the Higgins line.  But my face, its features never reflected them.    Even though I know it’s not possible, I often wondered if I was adopted.  These ideas were floaty, airy even.  I just wanted to think them.   However, seeing your face, I was brought back to the ground.  I belong here.  I am blood. 

Even more difficult than writing a letter to a friend, is writing to someone you have never met.   Yet you are family, so this should be a comfortable thing.  And because of our striking resemblance, I almost consider this a letter to myself in a past life.  Aunt Nellie, I am your great-great-niece.  Your nephew Francis is my grandfather.  He’s going on 84 now, but you probably don’t want to hear that.  He grew up well.  And so did his children, and their children (my generation).    I’m doing good things with your face.   I keep our skin as clear as it can be for a person just squeezing out of adolescence.  I’m 19, you know, close to the age my mother was when you passed away.   I’m sorry, is that a sensitive topic…?  Forget I said anything.    My mind is my own, and it is currently begging for more challenges and insights.  My mind drinks in new experiences and knowledge like something less clique then a sponge.    As is turns out, my gift is languages. Learning them, for me, comes so naturally.   I started with French and moved onto Korean.   My love of the language extends to the love of the people and the cultures as well.  I hope to travel and share my culture as I learn about others.

Aunt Nellie, I never knew you.   My mother, who did, has only mentioned you in passing.  Yet I find a strange connection to you.   Thank you for your face, I will take good care of it.   It is very beautiful, and I will treat it right.  

Until we meet,

                Ruby DeLayne Higgins

                Daughter of Sarah Cox